Branded
by Song Of A Free Heart
Summary: Red hot iron met human skin. And screams elicited the sympathy of the chained dragons. Even for the one who had captured them. Eret's branding at the hands of Drago.


**I don't even remember** _ **why**_ **, but this scene started playing out in my head in crystal clear HD a week or two ago. (It would word better in visuals, but this is my medium, so this is what you're getting.)**

 _Branded_

The air seemed to grow colder. As if it hadn't already been frigid. This far north, surrounded by nothing but water and glaciers, it seemed as if the cold was all there was. An all encompassing thing that couldn't be escaped. Grey clouds hung low over head, bleeding in a thick layer of fog that wrapped around the fleet of ships. Blurring the edges of the world.

In the haze, the red hot iron stood out with vivid clarity.

Eret edged back, throat tight as he struggled to breathe. His eyes were locked on the brand. Metal that had sat in the coals for hours. So hot that even the frigid air had no affect on it. As he stared, unable to blink, the bright red, in contrast with the dull grey around them, was already burning itself onto a vision. A promise of what was coming.

"Drago—"

Drago ignored him. Instead just nodded to two of his men. There was no emotion in his expression. Save for a glimmer of something dangerously close to anticipation.

Eret tried to react as the men came towards him. But his limbs were sluggish with fear. By the time he moved to stop them, they had already pulled his swords from the sheathes and started to back away. His hands closed around thin air.

His instinct was to fight. To lunge for his swords. For any weapon. To do whatever it took to get out of this.

But he stood on the deck of Drago's flagship, surrounded by warriors loyal to the dragon master. There was no fighting his way out. His own men stood a few feet away. For all the good it did. Too scared for their own skin to make a move to help him. The cowards.

He turned back to Drago, chest rising and falling rapidly as his breathing grew more ragged. His eyes kept falling on the red hot metal, bent into the shape of a dragon's skull split by a sword. The same insignia on the sails high above them.

The same mark branded onto all the dragons Eret had delivered over the past few years.

Well, there was a kind of irony in that. One he would have time to contemplate later, when he was capable of actually stringing cohesive thoughts together.

"Drago, please." He eyed the men closing in around him. Trying to edge away from Drago, who stalked toward him across the deck.

Somewhere in the mist, he heard a strange clicking sound. Unfamiliar, but agitated. Vaguely eerie. No. Very eerie. It was not helping.

"This—" He laughed nervously as his voice failed him, hyper aware that the space around him was shrinking quickly. "This isn't necessary."

"Hold him." Drago didn't raise his voice. There was no emotion in his tone.

If he registered Eret's words, there was no indication of it. His face remained impassive. Unreadable. His movements were slow and steady. A predator closing in on prey that has no chance of escaping. Taking his time, because he can.

Eret tried not to look away. As if keeping his eyes on the man would keep him safe.

Again, two of Drago's men closed the space. Grabbing Eret's arms, and pulling them behind his back. Instinct reared up again, and this time he tried to fight. To pull his arms free. But even though neither of the men was larger than he was, their combined strength was enough to keep him back.

The rest of his body still tried to fight. Tried to kick. Or jerk himself free. But they yanked him back with enough force that pain shot through his shoulders. He grimace.

"Drago, I swear, it won't happen again!" His words had become frantic.

And the clicking. That blasted clicking. It grew louder. More agitated. He felt it vibrate in his sternum. Only increasing his own anxiety as Drago continued closer.

Breathing became harder as dread unfurled like a black hand in his stomach. Spreading through his veins like a poison.

A third man grabbed the front of his tunic. Pulling at the fabric until the threads tore. The violent ripping so loud it made it passed the pounding in his ears.

Ever muscle in his body tensed as the cold air bit hungrily into the newly exposed skin. Skin already marked by razor sharp steel and dragon talons. Now to bear a very different mark. Not a battle scar. A mark of shame. A reminder of his failure.

Drago was so close now. Almost on him.

Desperation welled up in tandem with panic.

"No! You don't have to do this. It won't happen again. I won't fail you again. You have my word. Drago, please!"

Drago Blüdvist stood directly in front of him. Above him, as the men bore their weight down on, forcing him to his knees on the deck. There was no trace of sympathy as he raised the brand. No sign of remorse.

The red hot metal hovered in the air, less than an inch from Eret's chest. He could feel the heat radiating from it. Already uncomfortably hot. His body exhaled as he closed his eyes, trying to collapse his chest. To shrink away from that heat. From what he knew was coming.

When it didn't come right away, he dared to look at Drago. With the fleeting hope that this was just a threat. That Drago was just trying to scare him.

That he wouldn't go through with his.

He knew that wasn't the case. But the hope crossed his mind.

But when he looked up, he realized that was exactly what the man had been waiting for.

The corner of Drago's mouth curled in a sneering smile. The expression truly hideous on his scarred face.

"Oh, believe me," he said quietly. "It won't."

The brand, still angry red, slammed into his chest.

Eret screamed.

The pain – blinding hot and furious – overrode his pride. His resolve. Anything that might have let him hold the sound back. It tore the scream out of his throat.

Every other sense was overwhelmed. Black spots danced across his vision, though he couldn't register what was in front of him. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't smell. Couldn't feel the deck beneath him, or the hands that still held his arms with bruising force.

Just the hot metal on his skin.

All comprehension of time was gone. Drago might have held the brand there for only a few seconds or for something that edged on eternity.

Even when he pulled it away, the pain remained.

Eret was aware that the men let go of him, only because the world shifted as he fell to the deck. He rolled onto his right side, his body trying to curl around the source of the pain. To protect himself. His hands wanted to press against it. But touch only caused the skin to flare with an angry flash of pain.

He grunted, every muscle tense. Wanting to move, but refusing to do so.

Then he felt it.

It was enough to break through the haze of pain. Just enough to get his attention.

The whole ship shuddered. Not the normal rocking of a ship at sea. This was something different. Something Eret thought he might have experienced before, but his brain was too scattered to bother with memories at the moment.

He distinctly heard the sound of rattling chains. The roar of a dragon.

No, not a roar.

A cry. Mournful. And… sympathetic. In his haze of pain, Eret almost thought the cry was an echo of his scream. Telling him that he had been heard.

That was stupid.

He closed his eyes, clenching them shut as he retreated back into himself. Away from dragons, and dragon masters. Away from the pain.

Away from everything.


End file.
